


No Love Lost in Translation

by ThePaintedScorpionDoll



Series: Scenes from a War-Forged Courtship [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Aeron Tabris, Aeron/Alistair, Elvhen Language, F/M, Tabristair - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 12:24:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15291480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePaintedScorpionDoll/pseuds/ThePaintedScorpionDoll
Summary: Or, "Don't Assume All Elves Speak Elvhen." Alistair learns that one the hard way. (Sort of.)





	No Love Lost in Translation

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to [Katie's Best-Guess-at-Elvhen Dictionary](https://archiveofourown.org/works/359253/chapters/582281) for acting as a much useful-supplementary guide to [the DA Wiki page on Elvhen](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Elven_language).
> 
> Also, shout out to the lovely anonymous prompt fairy who gave me the initial idea for this fic. It was supposed to be just a short little drabble but it turned into...well...this. Sorry it took me so long and I hope you enjoy it! ♥

"How do you say it again?”

“Mala asha ena’an’sal mir nehn ena.”

“Mala asha—”

“—ena’an’sal mir nehn ena. It’s simple.”

Alistair’s brow furrows in frustration. Simple! Sure! Of course! If you’ve spent your whole life speaking the language, that is; or have even “just a passing knowledge of it,” which is what Zevran insisted when Alistair first approached him with this idea of surprising Aeron.

_(“You_ are _aware it’s mostly the Dalish who speak it regularly, right? Even they aren’t always sure of what they’re saying!”_

_“I-I may have…recently heard her talking with Leliana, and…”_

_“Ahh, eavesdropping on a lady’s conversation! And here I took you for a gentleman.”_

_“Look, will you help me or not?”_

_“Aw, calm down, Alistair. Since this is in the name of love, I will help you! I just want you to be aware; this is one of the few areas where I do not excel, and she may not even know what you’re saying, regardless of how much you’re speaking from the heart.”)_

All of that modesty, and yet the Elvhen unfurls from Zevran’s lips with experienced perfection every time. In comparison, the same words leave Alistair’s mouth in halting, awkward bursts. The emphasis ends up on the wrong areas and his vowels are either too long or not long enough. Compared to Zevran, Alistair surely sounds like a thick-tongued idiot, a babbler, a child simply playing with noises. He might as well have stuffed his mouth with marbles. Not like anyone would notice the difference.

Alistair looks down at the scrap of paper in his hands. Why did he expect Zevran to have such gentler-looking handwriting? The man is a trained killer. Of course, it’s neat-looking and bold, distinct enough to make out against any sort of paper. What sort of assassin would risk instructions and messages with pretty handwriting?

“Mala asha’ena—”

“ _Asha. Ena’an’sal._ Two words,” Zevran reminds him. “Here. Give me that—”

Alistair flinches away when Zevran grabs the scrap of paper from his hands. He swiftly chides himself for the reaction. Stupid. What was he expecting? (No, not _what_ , actually. More like _why_?) He isn't a child anymore. This isn't some formal lesson in the abbey that he’s been sleeping through, nor is it the aftermath of some childish mischief put to a stop by the arlessa, either. Alistair came to Zevran asking for a favor. Even if it took some convincing, Zevran’s only trying to help.

“Sorry.” Alistair frowns. “I just—”

“From your reaction, I should think apologies are due from me instead.” Zevran waves the scrap paper. “You’re not terrible at this, Alistair. It’s just the first half.”

“The more important half, I should think,” Alistair answers. “No point finishing if the first part is terrible.”

“If that were true,” Zevran tells him, “there would be a great number of unsatisfied lovers in the world.” He laughs a little. “Try it without looking at the words themselves. Listen to my voice. Mala asha—”

“Mala asha—”

“—ena’an’sal.”

“—ena’an’sal.”

“Mala asha ena’an’sal,” Zevran says, again, flawlessly.

“Mala asha ena’an’sal,” Alistair repeats.

Zevran nods approvingly. “Now, the whole phrase.”

Alistair draws in a steadying breath. As he speaks, it still feels like he has a mouthful of marbles, but if Zevran’s satisfied expression is anything to go by, then perhaps at least a few have tumbled out to make room for clarity.

“And you’re sure this means what I’m hoping it means, right?” He tries not to sound doubtful, but the fear of looking even more like an idiot than usual makes him ask for what is probably the fourth or fifth time. “I wouldn’t be saying something that might cause Aeron to, Maker forbid, make me sleep outside or—or punch me—?”

“Alistair—” Zevran puts a hand to his shoulder. “—in the pursuit of love, I would never steer you wrong. Trust me.”

Not like Alistair has much of a choice here. Maybe he could have bought a dictionary when last they were in Denerim, but…

“Okay.” Alistair nods once, attempting to assure himself. “Thanks, Zevran.”

“No need. I am happy enough to know I was of assistance.”

And there’s something about the way Zevran smiles at him; for once, Alistair doesn’t feel like the unwitting target of some new prank, the punchline to a joke everyone else already knows.

Now he just has to make sure he doesn’t screw this up when the time finally comes. No pressure, right?

Alistair decides to wait until it is just him and Aeron—if only to avoid the risk of Oghren’s crudeness or maybe Morrigan’s snide remarks ruining the moment, and certainly _not_ because he is worried the extra witnesses will make him screw up the words as he says them. When Aeron volunteers to take first watch, Alistair seizes the opportunity and offers to join her. From there, it becomes a waiting game as, one by one, the others retreat to their tents. Oghren goes first with his booze. Leliana, yawning demurely, picks up Schmooples and bids the others good night. Wynne retreats quickly after. Soon after that, it’s Morrigan, who gives Alistair one of her usual withering looks but bids Aeron good night with a surprising amount of…genuine friendliness in her voice.

“Okay, am I hearing things,” Alistair says, “or was she actually nice to you?”

Aeron merely shrugs, poking at the fire. “She’s not this terror you make her seem like sometimes, y’know.”

“I’m…”

But he lets the matter drop; they have had this conversation about Morrigan before.

Soon enough, Sten departs for his own bed. Zevran is the last to turn in, and he does so with little more than acknowledging his turn at second watch and some dreamy comment about beautiful nights like this being full of fortune.

“Why, who knows what marvelous things might happen?”

Alistair rolls his eyes. Zevran might as well have just wished him good luck on his declaration of love and it would have been more subtle.

“So,” Aeron says, eyeing him about an hour into first watch, “I couldn’t help noticing you were quieter than usual tonight.”

Alistair blinks. She noticed? “Was I?”

Aeron nods, adding another log to the fire. Of _course_ , she noticed. “Is everything all right with you?”

“With me? Yes! Yeah, of course, Aeron. Everything is—I’m—it’s all fine here. Honest. I’m quite— I mean, not a single thing is bothering this Warden. Not at all.”

“You’re sure?”

“Well…we _are_ still being hunted by Loghain and his men. The Archdemon still needs killing. Duncan is still dead and the Wardens dishonored, and the only other father figure in my life suddenly wants me to be _king_! I suppose it’s all a bit…overwhelming, to put it mildly, but…”

Alistair shakes his head. It _is_ overwhelming to think about. So many problems ahead of them—huge problems, legitimate in their scope and gravity—and he sits here nervous about impressing a girl who already likes him!

_She doesn’t just like you, you idiot._

No, he knows that. How could he possibly forget? It’s just still a little bit hard to believe…

“Look, Aeron…there’s lots that’s troubling me right now. I’d be lying, and badly, if I said I wasn’t worried or scared or…still confused, even, about what’s going on.” Through a short laugh, he takes Aeron’s hand between his own. “Still, I’d be lying just as badly if I didn’t admit that, with you here, things aren’t as bad—or, at—at least, they don’t seem as bad.”

“I won't argue with you there.” Aeron smiles at him. “Seems like one of the best decisions I made was promising to see this through with you.”

“And I can’t begin to imagine… Even with everything that's happened to us, you make me so…incredibly happy.” Alistair returns her smile. “You’re a wonder, my love, and I am still so very lucky.”

Aeron’s smile widens. “It’s good to see you haven’t forgotten!”

“How could I possibly…?”

Her mouth lands against his, gently, and his breath briefly catches. Alistair reaches up to cradle the curve of her face as he returns her kiss. Aeron parts her lips for him, drawing out a little moan when her tongue brushes against his. How warm! How sweet! Honestly, how could he ever even _begin_ to forget how fortunate he is to get to experience this? Despite how they started, despite all they’ve been through and what still remains… Somehow, he has earned her love. Somehow, _together_ , they have carved out something beautiful and _good_ that is all their own; a haven from all the dark ugliness surrounding them.

Alistair is breathless when the kiss ends, but the moment gives him courage.

“M-mala asha…ena’an’sal mir nehn ena.”

His voice is just above a whisper and rough with the first stirrings of want, but the words roll out perfectly enough as he speaks them—as if the lack of sufficient air is his only roadblock, and a minor one at that. Now there is just waiting for Aeron’s reaction, and Alistair’s heart threatens to stop beating if nothing happens in the next ten, nine, eight, seven, six—

Aeron breathes a soft chuckle. “Is that so, my love?”

“Of course, it is. Why would it—?” The pleasure of a second kiss is offset by doubt creeping in. “I mean…”

Aeron’s eyes look much too bright with mischief for his comfort. Then again, maybe it’s simply that trick her eyes do, the one where they take in the light and shine a different color? Surely, if Alistair looks hard enough, he’ll spot that telltale glint of red! But then a flashback to the afternoon strikes him and brings with it a sudden bolt of fear; just how much convincing did it _really_ take before Zevran taught him the phrase? And he had been so _nice_ about it, too, hadn’t he? So _helpful_! He even spoke without any hint of the tone that normally has Alistair looking up for the joke so clearly hovering over his head!

_Oh, Maker._

Heat rises into Alistair’s face, familiar at its foolish temperature. “What I _wanted_ to say was—I mean—” He looks down and lets out a long sigh. “This is all my fault. I just wanted to surprise you, is all. I shouldn’t have trusted… I’m sorry. Whatever I actually said—”

“You didn’t mean?” Aeron makes sound of mild disappointment. “That’s a shame, really.”

Confused, Alistair looks up at her. There is still the sparkle of mischief in her eyes, but the ghost of a kinder smile hovers at the corners of her mouth. Aeron leans in, as if their fellow companions might only be pretending to sleep, and she whispers into Alistair’s ear. His eyes widen.

“I— You can’t be—” But as she begins to laugh, he knows she is telling him the truth. “Is that really what I said?”

It takes Aeron a moment to gather enough air to respond. “In the, uh—the Alienage, at least—? But we—it’s…different, how we say it, sort of?” She giggles. “‘Asha enansal.’ Bit shorter, but it still means ‘a woman’s gifts,’ which in _my_ part of town refers to—”

“But that isn’t what I—! I mean… _yes_ —yes, of _course_ , I enjoy seeing… How could I not? You’re… I mean, look at you! You’re beautiful!” Alistair says, waving a hand from crown to toes. “I love you! _All_ of you.”

“As I am—” Aeron clears her throat. “—well aware. I’ve noticed the way you look at me sometimes, and there’s the, uh…the way you touch me when we’re in bed. It’s like…

“Anyway,” she continues (and though it’s hard to tell for sure, her cheeks look a bit more flushed), “I get the sentiment, Alistair—I appreciate it, even—but…” She gives him a fond look. “Maybe next time just tell me straight off, hm? Save all the fancy words for books and the Elvhen for the Dalish.”

“Yes.” He nods, already eager to put this embarrassment behind him. “I think we can consider this lesson firmly learned.”

“Good.” Aeron presses a kiss to his cheek. “And hey, I mean, if you’re not too tired after this watch—”

“Yes, _of course_ —but only if you don’t finish that sentence,” Alistair answers, already wondering whether he should kill Zevran or thank him for this instead.


End file.
